


Hot as a smoking gun

by regsregis



Series: Breaking your habits [9]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, think ao3 warnings cover pretty much all that's here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 09:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13715109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regsregis/pseuds/regsregis
Summary: Some people learn never to mess with Rhys, Jack discovers he wants them to do that everyday.





	Hot as a smoking gun

Jack tucks his head under Rhys’ arm, eyes quickly skimming over the files in his hands, “so, who exactly are they?”

 

“Hmm, families of the deceased Atlas employees, old Atlas to be precise, these two,” Rhys points to a pair of siblings - photos attached to the files, “seem to be the spawn of one the VPs, the rest is loosely related to this or another MD,” he shrugs, not particularly interested in the sob story of the people demanding an ‘audience’ with the Atlas CEOs. They showed up a couple days ago and bothered everyone up the chain of command, claiming to have access to some of the old Atlas’ projects that could be of interest to the phoenix company, until Rhys finally agreed to meet them in person.

 

These days, Rhys and Jack have a scenario for dealing with people trying to negotiate conditions with them, one that doesn’t need rehearsing anymore, with the former playing the good cop and the latter the bad cop, often turning to near physical violence. Which seems to work in their favour more often than Jack’s original way of conducting business talks did, which, truth be told, was just violence. Sprinkled some thinly veiled threats.

 

So when the time comes, Rhys plays it cool, with a narrow, forced smile on his lips and Jack perched against the arm of the large chair, tossing snarky comments every now and then. Atlas politely refuses to cover the reparations to the families of the late employees, even though, the very cause of their deaths is nowadays listed on their pay list under the entry ‘Athena’. 

 

“We used to own over 6% of the shares!” one of the twins argues.

 

“Ah yeah,” Jack nods, “I vaguely recall buying them for like two pesos, in fact, I did you a favour there! That’s just about enough money for some rakk nuggets, show some gratitude!”

 

“You can’t hold us responsible for what had happened in the past, despite sharing some similarities with the old Atlas, we are a brand new company, ergo without the old liabilities and assets,” Rhys seems tired by now, rubbing the bridge of his nose and tossing discreet glances towards Jack, quietly begging him to just end it now, “if you wish to continue negotiating selling us the projects you claim to have, you’d better stop wasting my time and resume the talks with our financial department. Else you can return back to Tantalus and wait for Atlas to come back to reclaim it’s old territories…and the projects.” That’s quite charitable of Rhys, in Jack’s humble opinion, to even give them a forewarning, a chance to escape the planet before the fights between the waring companies are rekindled.

 

“No,” the twins speak again, exchanging brief glances with the rest of the group.

 

“No?” Jack’s hands curl into fists as he senses the underlying threat in their overlapping voices.

 

“No, you will not do such a thing,” a nod prompts the oldest of the group to start spreading photos across the low coffee table - the only barrier between the moody CEOs and the group that seems to have forgotten their manners. “You owe us our mother and father, you owe Silvia her oldest son, you owe Martin the rest of his whole family, the list just keeps going on and on, it’s only fair that we take something of yours too if you are unwilling to cover our expenses.”

 

Jack produces an ugly snort at the back of his throat, ‘expenses’, that’s rich, as far as he knows, every single person in front of him has been reaping the benefits of their relatives’ hard work for years now, VPs and MDs certainly didn’t earn peanuts and whatever those people had saved, should last them at least one more generation.

 

But then he catches the way Rhys’ knuckles turn white as his eyes dart from one photo to another, from a shot of his mother unsuspectingly chilling on an inflatable flamingo in her pool, to a somewhat angled picture of her batting her eyelashes at the pizza man at the front door. One thing Jack knows for sure, the other man absolutely hates people poking their noses into his private life and so far, has been quite successfully keeping his mother out of all of this. To her absolute dismay, if her constant complaining is anything to go by. However, Rhys always managed to placate her with this or another expensive toy so she mostly stayed out of the public’s eye.

 

“Jack…” quiet voice brings him back to the reality, all senses switching to full alert, as that usually foreshadowed a prompt to start wreaking havoc. He absently thumbs along the curve of the gun strapped to his hamstring, muscles growing taut and awaiting the moment he can spring forward, “...can you make sure they stay exactly where they are?”

 

It’s odd… not what he was expecting, and apparently neither did the group, the tension in the air growing palpable. It quickly turns thick enough that you could slice it with a knife as the barrel of his pistol dances between scared faces. “You’ve heard the man shitheads, keep your asses glued to your seats!”

 

“You, you wouldn’t dare!,” one of the siblings makes the mistake of going against Jack’s order. Before he can however shoot that little shit in the foot, Rhys darts forward, one of his heels clicking against the table as he jumps over it, mechanical fist instantly wrapping around the man’s throat. The precarious balance of the uneasy tension tips, the underlying spell of calm surrounding Rhys - broken. Not Jack’s however, the gun heavy but steady in his grip, feet shifted apart and tongue swiping over his lips to taste the static of Rhys’ cold anger.  The sister tries to help her twin, latching onto Rhys’ flesh arm, “stop! You can’t do that! We are recording everything and streaming for the rest of the world! Everyone will see your lies!”

 

Jack needs to take a few steps closer and around the table, still keeping the rest of the mortified group in his sights, but once he comes close enough to catch Rhys’ expression, his heart thuds louder in his ears, drowning out the lousy threats. Rhys is… absolutely furious, and it’s not the same kind of hot, burning fury of exasperation he usually tends to exhibit whenever Jack steps on his toes too hard. It’s white and cold, twisting his features into a grotesque mask and Jack has a feeling it won’t be as easily put out as the usual flames of Rhys’ anger, most often quickly subdued and tucked back under the calm demeanor. 

 

“Good,” the words are hissed, Rhys’ echo eye flaring to life to locate where the recording device exactly is, and once that’s done, he drags the twins towards the eldest, Silvia - if Jack remembers correctly. It looks like she has a camera hidden in the front pocket of her suit, Rhys leaning forward towards her chest. He clears his throat, “good,” louder now, “let them all see what happens when you start making ridiculous demands.” This time it’s the brother’s face that most likely takes the whole screen of the viewers, Rhys shoving the girl latched to his shoulder away and making her fall onto the floor with a yelp, as he changes the grip he has on the man. With his now free, cybernetic hand, he runs the unyielding metal of his fingertips over the man’s face, methodically rendering the flesh into shreds and eventually grabbing him by the face, the extra strength from the new source of power making the process of lifting the flailing, screaming man up look like the easiest task in the world. By now there isn’t much left of the idiot’s face, the stark similarity to his sister completely erased with the flashes of bone peeking from between the torn flesh. Which seems to at the very least satisfy some part of Rhys’ anger, and adds fuel to the warmly crackling fire beginning to build in the pit of Jack’s stomach.

 

Jack would expect a cold smile or at least smirk on Rhys’ face but there still is just that barely contained anger, not a single muscle twitching when he finally crushes his victim’s face, the intraocular fluid from the bursted eye dripping between his fingertips, and the sounds of bones breaking mingling with the screams of the terrified group.

 

“Did you get that right or do you need me to repeat myself?” Rhys seems to be speaking to the now dead man he has dropped at his feet, eventually craning his neck slightly to glare at the people in the room. So used to the decision making process he is, or so sure and cocky Rhys has grown, he makes the decision for them, turning towards the sister staring in shock at her dead twin. It all happened so quickly she seems to be still processing what is going on, another surprised yelp escaping her when she’s grabbed by a handful of hair and yanked up. 

 

Unlike Jack, Rhys lacks that finesse and certain artsiness which comes with enjoying torturing people, he works more like a butcher just doing his job, or a teacher explaining something to a rather dense group of students. He doesn’t talk like Jack does either, occasionally letting out tight huffs of anger when his unwilling ‘audience’ tries to interrupt the demonstration, any words of protest instantly shushed when Jack sends a few stray shots towards them.

 

They wait and watch, shell-shocked and paralyzed with crippling fear. 

 

He waits and watches, half hard and trembling with the urge to join in on the mayhem. 

 

And Rhys, Rhys carefully digs the heel of his boot into one of her hands, bones breaking and cries nearly drowning out the victorious song of violence humming in Jack’s veins. He can feel the thrilling tingle in the tips of his own fingers when Rhys presses his into one scared eye, the oh-so ordinary shade of her iris disappearing when the soft tissue gives under the pressure. Soon enough she’s blinded, with her other eye miserably -or in Jack’s not so humble opinion, hilariously- dangling just by a thread and bumping against one flushed cheek. The girl wails herself into unconsciousness and the stench of blood and fear itches in Jack’s hands, urging him to pull the trigger and watch yet another body drop to the floor. Conscious or not, Rhys doesn’t seem to care, and for her, there won’t be any coming back to the waking world, cybernetic fingers curling around the column of her throat, effectively breaking the respiratory tract. 

 

When Rhys speaks again, his voice is completely emotionless and he cocks his head to the side to lazily stare at the rest of the group, “take your recordings, I don’t care, and get the fuck out of here before I change my mind.”

 

Rhys stands over the cooling down corpses with his hands balled into tight fists, breath coming in in short, clipped huffs. He awkwardly clears his throat but from where Jack is standing, he can see the fury hasn’t subsided just yet.

 

That’s quite a precarious situation, one wrong move and he’ll be kicked out of Rhys’ office but, for every inch of control the other man loses, Jack gains confidence and influence, quietly watching him take a few steps towards his desk before leaning against it.

He takes it as his cue to come closer. Rhys doesn’t seem to notice him, staring at the flecks of red and shreds of tissue stuck to his cybernetic hand. 

 

“Quite the show Rhysie,” he nearly purrs, his own hands working on getting the outer layer of clothing off of Rhys’ slender form before he moves to wipe away the blood with the jacket. 

 

Rhys only nods. 

 

“No one would now dare lay a single finger on her,” he’s trying for more or less reassuring, fingers skimming over the other man’s exposed collarbones and the skin nearly burns under his touches. Rhys keeps intently staring at his own hands but Jack can just about catch the bright fire shielded under dark eyelashes. He likes how it looks and he loves what it does to him. 

 

“Nor on you,” a hand suddenly curling into the hair at the back of his head catches Jack off guard but the initial shock dissipates in a wave of warmth radiating from the body pressed flush to his. Finally, some action instead of this strange, violent apathy and Jack eagerly gives into it, wanting to drag Rhys under the same joy and thrill warming him from the inside out.

 

“Nor on me,” Jack agrees and through the haze, he idly notes that while it usually was him being the possessive, overprotective one, it’s quite nice to find himself at the other end of it.

 

Their lips less than an inch apart, he can feel every stranded breath Rhys takes, and when Jack moves, so does Rhys, fighting a losing battle to retreat back to his usual, composed self. That’s not what Jack wants, chapped skin barely brushing to chapped skin, seconds of stillness ticking away. They breathe together, shared heat curling in warm puffs against his lips but that’s the only contact for now. He revels in that type of calm before a terrifying storm because he knows he has won and that Rhys is giving in, mouth slightly ajar, just enough so that when he wants to say something, undoubtedly, stupid, Jack can slip the very tip of his tongue in and skate it along the edges of Rhys’. 

 

After that, Rhys doesn’t say anything, crashing his lips with Jack’s properly, teeth clanking and desperation leaving smarting bites over his skin. He’s not here to calm Rhys down, never was, struggling against the grip instead of going with the motion, in truth, wanting to give the other extra incentive to tighten his grip rather than deter him. There is a certain kind of balance between their constant tug and pull, an unspoken agreement to drag each other deeper into a downward spiral or race to the top.

 

Between the two of them, it’s him who gets off to violence and the thigh slotting between his is a welcomed point of contact, something solid he can grind against, hands clawing at the undone front of Rhys’ shirt. Neither of them bothers with undressing more than necessary and when his palms press over warm skin, he can feel a frantic heart trying to beat its way out of Rhys’ chest. Jack rakes his fingernails over the layers separating him from the hectic pulse, a stuttered gasp and a barely contained growl coming as a response. There are bruises, have to be, blooming around the metal grafted into the skin of Rhys’ shoulder and he digs his fingers into the tender flesh, thrilled by the hiss it earns him.

 

While Jack’s aggressiveness has always been somewhat jerky, manifesting itself in wake of his scattered thoughts, bruising touches tripping over one another, Rhys is the complete opposite, steady grip slowly tightening until it borders on too much. He moves with deliberate intentions, hand sweeping lower to the back of Jack’s neck, metal digging into the straining muscles and maneuvering him around until he’s splayed front first over the desk. That’s exactly what he needs and wants right now, something unyielding he can re-center himself around, sinking into that steady, solid feeling.

 

The wood is well protected with a layer of varnish, Jack’s nails unable to leave marks but they make a scratching sound as he presses his fingertips into it and draws them lower, not trying to achieve anything in particular, just a show of his frustration. 

 

There is a hand grabbing a fistful of the back of his clothes, hiking the layers up and then holding him down, another one, thankfully flesh and bone but tipped with sharper nails, drags along his spine. 

 

He’s hard and wound up tight like a lute’s strings about to snap, Rhys’ free hand tugging at the tension and sending tremors up his spine. The heat of Rhys’ anger spreads through Jack’s body like wildfire, the man always being nothing more but a tinder waiting and needing to be ignited, catching up on that restless energy which sets his spine aflame. All the more when he can feel Rhys mindlessly grinding against him, and, as flattering as it is, it’s not getting them anywhere, impatience pulling his back into an arch against the hand holding him down, “Jesus, get to it pumpkin before I die of old age,” not likely - but his brain is going to fry itself very soon if he doesn’t find an outlet for his burning need.

 

The metal of his belt buckle makes a loud noise in the otherwise quiet room as it hits the floor, and he nearly trembles to the sound of a plastic packet being torn open. Fingers blindly pawing down the line between his cheeks are cold and slick and when two of them worm their way inside without any prelude, Jack’s whole body jerks forward. The intrusion borders on painful, definitely lacking the usual care and gentleness but Jack’s not a gentle man either, reaching over his shoulder to grab at a handful of Rhys’ hair and roughly tug him closer. If he’s experiencing discomfort, so should everybody else, although, the hot, damp breath ghosting over the shell of his ear proves that his attempt wasn’t very successful. The frustration turns into something hard to control, the heavy weight over his back and clever movement of Rhys’ hand making him want to scream, hips boxed against the hard edge of the desk and bucking uselessly. A thumb pressed just beneath the point of entry and the fingers inside of him work in tandem, sending Jack’s eyes almost painfully rolling back. When Rhys turns his hand over and this time presses his knuckles into the bundle of nerves inside of him, a string of unintelligible curses dances on Jack’s slack open lips. After that short prelude, Rhys works his fingers in an efficient scissoring motion, for once too impatient to bother with anything more than just the bare minimum, soon withdrawing and replacing the tips of his fingers with the blunt width of his cock. 

 

The whine tethering at the edges of Rhys’ lips nearly sounds like Jack’s name, one hand steady over Jack’s hip, and when the other man starts pulling him towards himself, he has to squeeze his eyes tightly shut, teeth biting into his lower lip to hide the quiver. In a way, it reminds him of watching raging fires scorch the ground, a line of burning red spreading out, just like the heat is now crawling its way up from the point of contact, body stretching and adjusting to the feeling of being filled. And then Rhys sinks his teeth into Jack’s shoulder and another fire ignites, the fronts heading for a crash, melting and melding and setting off sparks even in the tips of his curled toes. What Rhys is doing here, now pulling back without giving the other time to fully adjust, mouth moving to suck another mark to the left, that’s laying claim, Jack recognizes that, but to hell with that, he doesn’t mind, not when it feels so good and not when he knows that ultimately, the power and strength now pinning him down belong to no one else but him.

 

When Rhys angles his hips in just the right way, a flash of white blooms behind his closed eyelids and the sound escaping him is something he hasn’t even heard from the most seasoned porn stars.

 

“...again,” oh shit but he loved that moan and he wants to hear it again, raw and unbridled, mouth hanging open in anticipation for another brush over that one spot inside of him. It comes, of course it does because Rhys has never refused to sate Jack’s desires and he seems to like it just as much as he does. Which makes it even hotter, loud noises chasing one another and the last shreds of Jack’s sobriety question his career choices.

 

He grows too warm in what clothes still cling to his body, sweat rolling down the curve of his nose because Jack certainly isn’t just laying there and taking, vigorously trying to buck back, his ass meeting Rhys’ front with obscene, wet slaps. He’s too warm and the sticky drool he couldn’t have been bothered to swallow pooling next to his cheek, any and all inhibitions - not that Jack had many of them - thrown to the wind, every sense and thought turned towards this singular feeling of connection and pleasure between the two of them. 

 

All of his senses are going haywire, overloaded with what he’s feeling, bright specks he doesn’t even try to blink away, dancing in his line of vision, the rush of blood drowning out other sounds beside the heavy, suffocating breaths stirring the wisps of his hair and tickling over his ear. It feels like his throat is clogged with the heat expanding in his too-tight chest, stealing his breath, and even through all of that, the only thing that counts is the solid weight over his back and the nearly fuzzy feeling making his guts flip. 

 

The fire he can feel consuming him can only be let out instead of put out, but the stuttered motion of Rhys’ rutting isn’t quite doing it for him, edging on the wrong side of just not enough and Jack is reduced to breathless demands for ‘more’, ‘harder’ and useless hisses through clenched teeth. It’s not like Jack isn’t trying to remedy that, the muscles along the backs of his thighs shaking with exertion as he uselessly tries to clench on the heavy heat inside of him.

Rhys rolls his hips back, slipping out of him, his length sliding up the curve of Jack’s ass instead of in and he makes a pitiful sound at the loss of contact. Both of them do in fact, and soon enough the hand holding him down moves to tangle into his hair, the other sliding under his torso to pull them closer together.

 

“Jack,” Rhys sounds like Jack is feeling, desperate and vulnerable, “can’t. Move. Loosen up. Please,” he begs and Jack has never heard a sound sweeter than that.

 

All he can say back is a choked out grunt because man, he’s trying but at the same time he doesn’t want to lose that absolutely delightful friction, stoking the heat and setting every nerve on fire, “suck it up princess.” He’s never been subtle and he wants Rhys inside of him like yesterday, trembling muscles cramping and howling for release. It’s just at the very edges of his grasp, a prickling tingle that’s beginning to turn his skin numb and that kind of nearly annoying itch that he can almost, almost scratch but can’t unless his senses overload - a shockwave leaving him wrecked but sated.

 

The ‘princess’, clearly doesn’t want to suck it up, concluding Jack’s rude words with a prissy growl and a few more useless grinds when Jack blindly tries to guide him back in. He’s nearly blinded and deafened with that singular need, focused solely on what he can get out of Rhys and how the man seems to equally crave him. Him, or the idea of Jack and he’s fine with either, as prideful of his looks as he is of what he has grown to represent and mean to Rhys. If Jack could, he’d keep him like that forever, desperate and stupid for Jack and Jack only. 

 

Or maybe not, because then he wouldn’t end up roughly maneuvered onto his back, their dicks now slotted together, the residue slickness easing the feverish slides.The sudden rush of air that came with the movement cools the dampness on his cheek and Jack is acutely aware of the mess he must represent. A smoking hot mess really, with every single hair out of place, eyes bright and hungry, and lips bitten red. He can’t help but fall into Rhys’ inescapable gravitational pull, completely tangled up and uselessly trying to bring the two of them that fraction closer. There is that completely irrational side of him that wants nothing else but melt into the other man, burn into his atmosphere and turn them both into a destructive supernova that will take the universe out once and for good.

 

He whines when Rhys lifts himself up, leaning over Jack, and stares at him through half lidded eyes with absolute adoration, like he’s the only bright beacon in complete darkness. Like all that matters, that has ever mattered, is Jack. “Relax,” it’s murmured, a plea this time and a sharp contrast to the strong grip against his hip. There is a promise hidden in Rhys’ words, that he knows what Jack needs and knows how to give it to him.

 

He’s not a particularly trusting guy but, he thinks, he can trust Rhys on this one.

 

Okay, okay, he can do that, a long, stranded breath hissing through his teeth and Jack can feel his oncoming release reduced to nothing but a simmer with each gulp of air. What a shame. He kind of wants to just kick this moron in the face, or tear at his own hair but instead, opts for tangling his hands into Rhys’ hair to bring the two of them closer for something that can’t even be called a kiss, and Jack thinks, that it’s a good compromise.

 

Rhys never fails to deliver the thrill of novelty, fingers once again working on making sure Jack stays relaxed before he can sink back into him, all red faced and in love with what Jack does to him. Because what he does, is take his reigns off, rewarding any and all acts of recklessness. Whether it’s sex, or violence, it’s something that must have always been inside of the other man, waiting for someone to finally nurture it and watch it bloom. And through that, Jack gets the upper hand, hopping along for the wild ride and nudging the wild force that Rhys can become into whatever direction he wants.

 

This time, when Rhys’ hips meet his ass, the slide is seamless, nearly frictionless and unsatisfying until there are two hands pressing hard low against his underbelly. And  _ that _ has his eyes crossing, the added tightness and the push from the inside as well as outside, creating that perfect mix of an overwhelming  _ too much _ , without rubbing his insides raw. That’s an absolutely new level of pleasure, a louder, trembling cry darting from his slack mouth when he can nearly feel Rhys’ dick brush against the fingers pressing hard through the layers of skin and tissue. Every rapid breath sets fireworks inside of his lungs off and Jack is choking on the tingle of the buzz filling his chest with every glassy, reverent look he gets from Rhys. He has to brace his hands against the edge of the desk because every snap of Rhys’ hips sends him sliding forward, and there isn’t a single string of muscle in his body that isn’t pulled painfully taut. It’s there, right there, between the choppy breaths and louder moans and Jack needs just that little bit more - something that seems to be constantly slipping from his grasp. 

 

Rhys finds it for him, ever the dutiful one, forehead dropping against Jack’s chest and his scattered mind catches a sigh of ‘safe, safe, safe’ curled around the gasps brushing over his skin. His churning bliss boils over in a matter of a few well aimed thrusts, and it’s mind numbing and taking him apart piece by piece until Jack feels like his whole being is re-centered around that single spot where they are joined together. 

 

“Shit, fuck,  _ fuck _ , kitten…” he doesn’t manage any more of a warning before the heat curled inside of him bursts, the strings of his being snapping under Rhys’ touches picking him apart.

 

When he comes back to it, Rhys is still, slumped over him, curled into Jack’s body and with little trembles crawling up his spine. He can’t feel his bones, everything replaced by tired numbness, not that he really minds, and the soft feeling of arms loosely wrapped around him.

 

“Rhys,” voice scratched raw, he needs to clear his throat first before he can continue, “Rhysie, pumpkin pie, you need to let go of that control of yours more often,” there comes a disapproving grunt because Rhys holds onto his control like a lifeline. He should hold onto Jack like that instead. “No, hush, shut up, _ that _ , was awesome. So was the sex but that’s just the cherry on top. You get like that more often, and soon there will be nothing to stand in your,  _ our _ way. Baby, all of those idiots used to fear me, they do now again but man, the way you tore those two to pieces? Man,  _ baby, _ the world needs to know you are coming after it.”

 

Rhys looks up and his eyes are somewhat unfocused but he drinks Jack’s words and looks back at him with trust in his eyes that Jack wants to break over and over again. Just because he knows Rhys will crawl back to him again and again. And just because he knows Rhys will always forgive him and stand by his side no matter what Jack does. He wants to manipulate him and he wants to pull him into a tight hug, still tangled into one another. He does the latter, silently begging for absolution. 


End file.
